


Forgiveness Comes in a Carton of Milk

by AllieCat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: John needs milk and Sherlock is a snarky bastard about it, M/M, written for the johnlock exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2012-12-14
Packaged: 2017-11-21 03:12:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllieCat/pseuds/AllieCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John had worked tirelessly at he clinic, trying to keep a roof over his and Sherlock's heads. The one thing he wants when he gets in late is a decent cuppa, but low and behold, there is no milk in the fridge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forgiveness Comes in a Carton of Milk

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the beautiful tumblr user; justonemoremiraclesherlock who participated in this year's Johnlock Exchange, but did not get her prompt filled. So here you go, darling, hope it's what you wanted!

****  
  
“Did you get the milk?” John asked,  finally setting foot in the very messy, almost chaotic apartment.  He’d been out at work all day, having picked up extra shifts at the surgery. He liked to tell himself that it was to help cover the rent, but a part of him said otherwise. Sherlock was increasingly more difficult to deal with of late, and John was glad to be out of the house, even if it wasn’t very exciting. Today, his day had been a steady stream of, ‘cough for the doctor, darling’ and ‘take this twice a day, with food’ and John was well and truly over it. Coming home to a house that looked like a bomb had hit it was not his idea of relaxation, but it would have to do. “‘I can’t bloody leave you for one day without you destroying the place.” John remarked, a little frustratedly. He set his bag down on the kitchen table, also a disaster zone, and headed over to where Sherlock was intently peering into his microscope. “So, no milk then?”  
  
“You asked me to get milk, and yet you knew how many important things I had to do today.” Sherlock stated, not really paying any attention to John. He was busy, and John should know better than to bother him. “And besides, it was your turn.” Sherlock added, as if he might somehow be helping his case, though he certainly was not.  John stood there for a moment, wishing like hell he had the courage to just chin Sherlock like he bloody well deserved. He didn’t have that courage though, and he wasn’t a particularly good punch either. “Furthermore, if you want milk, get it yourself!” Sherlock continued, yelling out his little tangent, seemingly oblivious to any feelings that John might have.  
  
“Sherlock, I’ve been gone for twelve hours! You couldn’t have found five minutes to get some milk?” John returned, trying to keep himself calm.  
  
“Clearly not, John. I’m nearing a breakthrough.” Sherlock said casually, and John wasn’t in any way surprised by his boyfriend’s reaction. In the beginning, it was harder to put up with Sherlock’s  snark and his sometimes stupid antics when it came to cases, but over their time together, John had learnt to keep himself under control. Arguing with a Holmes was not something you wanted to do.    
  
“So, what are you working on?” John asked, trying to guide the subject into something a little less likely to explode.  
  
“Does it matter?” Sherlock responded, refocusing the microscope, only looking up for a fraction of a second.  He was busy, couldn’t John see that? Twelve hours hadn’t nearly been enough.  
  
“Right, sorry.”  John muttered in response, and  left Sherlock to his experimentation,  deciding that  he’d enjoy a cup of black tea much better than facing the twenty-four hour Tesco. He pulled open the fridge door, hoping that by some miracle he might not have seen a full carton waiting for him, though he was shit out of luck. All that was in the fridge was odds and ends that belonged to Sherlock, which in any other shared fridge arrangement, wouldn’t pose a problem. The only catch was that John’s flat mate come boyfriend kept human body parts in the refrigerator instead of leftovers.  
  
“Thought you said you’d keep the limbs in the morgue and out of my fridge?” John grumbled, shutting the door so forcefully that a magnet and the week’s shopping list fell to the ground. Sherlock ignored John once more, just as thoroughly as he had ignored the shopping list, and John couldn’t help but feel hurt. “I’ve been gone since six this morning, and you have nothing to say to me?” John said, trying to get his detective’s attention, though it wasn’t really working. He filled the kettle on and set it to boil, and went back over to Sherlock. “Are you even listening to me?”  John asked, struggling not to get angry, and he prodded the thin, tall man, poking him square in the ribs.  
  
“Don’t poke me.” Sherlock glowered, only looking up long enough to shoot John an icy glare. “I am busy, so if you don’t mind, please vanish.” He said, an unusually empty, flat tone to his voice, which proved to John that he really didn’t give a shit. John stood in front of Sherlock, silently daring  the sodding prat to look up, to say something. “You’re still here.” Sherlock said, keeping his eyes on the cancer cells that he had in his slide.  
  
“Fine!” John shouted, even going as far as throwing his hands in the air. He was angry now, along with being more tired than he had been in a very long time, and all he wanted to do was sleep. “Fuck it all, Sherlock. Do whatever the fuck you want, but don’t expect to get my help with any bloody scrap of it!” John growled, and stormed out, leaving his  milkless tea  to go cold and disappearing into his old room, which had become the guest room since he and Sherlock started sleeping in the same bed. Tonight, he’d be sleeping alone, and he slammed the door behind him, locking it securely and collapsing down onto the bed, that had gathered a fine layer of dust since it’s last use. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, but John didn’t want to move from it any more than he wanted to go milk shopping.   Tentatively, John undressed, stripping until he was left in his pants. If he wanted pyjamas he’d have to leave the guest room, and that was not high on his to do list. His bed was not quite as comfortable as he’d remembered it to be, and the ache in his overworked back protested greatly, but he wasn’t going to give in, and give Sherlock the satisfaction of thinking he’d won.  
  


*.*.*.*.

Sherlock could’ve sworn that John had been around not long ago, but when he looked up, John had left. He pulled himself away from the microscope that he’d spent literally all day  
hunched over, and winced when he realised how sore his shoulders, and his back had become, wondering where John was so he might be able to get a backrub out of him. He wandered around the flat for a moment, and it was only when he saw the half prepared tea, that he realised what had happened.  
  
“John?” Sherlock said quietly, raising a tentative hand to the tarnish brass handle on the guest room door. It was locked of course, Sherlock hadn’t expected anything less. “John, I’m sorry.” He called, knocking again.  
  
“Go away!” Was the only response that John had for the  Consulting detective.  
  
“Please, Joh-”  
“No.”  
“John!”  
“Leave me alone!”  
  
They hadn’t had a fight like this in at least a year. In fact, this would have only been the second real fight that the pair of them had ever had, certainly the only one this bad. It was petty and pathetic, but Sherlock knew he was to blame, knew he was at fault for some reason, even if it wasn’t entirely clear. Something he’d said had rubbed John the wrong way, but it seemed to go deeper than that. Sherlock wasn’t sure what to do about this, apologising hadn’t gotten him anywhere, and so he didn’t know what else there was to do in such a situation. “I’m sorry.” Sherlock said again, but retreated from the door, and sank into the leather sofa, not wishing to sleep in their bed alone. He hated sleeping  
to begin with, but since he’d gotten used to sharing his bed, the thought of returning to it and finding it empty upset him more than he would have cared to admit.  
  
John tossed and turned in his old bed, the covers too heavy and hot, and the mattress all too hard. He couldn’t seem to get comfortable for the life of him, and Sherlock wasn’t helping him in the slightest. John loved Sherlock, he truly did, but sometimes it became too much. He listened to Sherlock apologising, and something low in his chest seemed to snap, because Sherlock never apologised. John could count the amount of times that Sherlock had said he was sorry on one hand, and the fact that he’d said it about four times now was beginning to become worrying.  When the knocking and apologising stopped, and he could put some more effort into trying to sleep, it became impossible.  He tossed and turned some more, as if it might actually help him, but eventually John gave in, dragging himself out of bed, not bothering to put a shirt on, and retreated from his safe cave of a spare bed, and into the living room, hovering behind his chair, a safe distance from his partner. Sherlock was not asleep, of course, but John had never expected him to be. He lay instead, with his stupidly beautiful green eyes hard focused on the ceiling. Sherlock seemed to have forgone the nicotine patches, but John could tell that Sherlock was probably aching for them by now.  
  
“Are we going to talk about this?” He asked finally, when he’d stood here for a whole, long minute without Sherlock saying a single word. John knew Sherlock had seen him there, and was still choosing to ignore him. John wanted to go to bed, and sleep for a week and not deal with any of this shit, but Sherlock was making it really fucking hard. “We are grown adults, we need to discuss this.”  
  
“I don’t know what you mean.” Sherlock finally piped up, his eyes unmoving from an unevenly painted spot on the ceiling as he spoke, making a conscious effort not to look at John. He knew exactly what John meant, but admitting it would be admitting defeat, something that he did not want to do in any way, shape or form.  
  
“This! This is what I mean, Sherlock.” John groaned, and threw himself down on his usual armchair, letting out a long, shaking breath, his hands scrubbing over his face. He felt a headache threatening, but he ignored it.  
  
“You’re angry.” Sherlock said bluntly.  
  
“No.” John said, because he truly wasn’t.  
  
“You clearly are. You’re yelling at me and you never do that.”  Sherlock’s voice rang out, though it was quieter this time, and might even be thought of as weak, or defeated.  
  
“I’m sorry, Sherlock.” John sighed, and sat forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees, and his face in his hands. He hadn’t meant to yell at Sherlock, the poor bugger, but today had been something else entirely and Sherlock hadn’t helped himself much either.  “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I had a shit day, and I just--. I’m sorry.” John was sincere, but he wasn’t even sure is Sherlock  could see that. He was a  little pissed still though. After all, Sherlock had been a complete bastard and probably hadn’t even known it.  
  
“I too, apologise.” Sherlock said, a little too forced, but John was going to take it and run. It seemed that when Sherlock was actually confronted his wrong doings, it was a little harder to apologise sincerely than it was when there was a bedroom door between the two of  them.  “It was wrong of me to yell at you. I am sincerely sorry.” Sherlock continued, and guided his empty gaze towards John. “I’m sorry.” He said, an air of finality about it.  
  
“It’s okay, Sherlock.” John returned and stood up, seating himself down on the floor at Sherlock’s head. “I love you, you stupid fool.” John murmured, taking one of Sherlock’s cold hands, and kissing his knuckles. Sherlock tensed, but relaxed soon afterwards, allowing John such ministrations, figuring it might help him in some way. Eventually, John dragged himself from the hard flooring and sat in the empty space by Sherlock’s waist. He looked at the consulting detective for a long moment, but quickly realised that he was not incredibly good with deductions, for Sherlock’s face was damn near impossible to read. “Can I kiss you?”  
  
Sherlock paused, running through John’s request in his head before he came up with a decent answer. “Yes, I suppose so.” He nodded, and smiled genuinely as John’s lips brushed his. Sherlock had never been one for kissing, or love or romance, but John had somehow changed that. The exchange of saliva that usual couples undertook had just never seemed right for Sherlock, and he certainly never thought anyone would want to kiss him. “I love you too, John.” Sherlock said quietly, and the smile on John’ s face told him that he was forgiven. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to anyone who read this, it's something I'm actually rather proud of as I haven't written in a fair while.


End file.
